


smoke in the water

by dropofrum (95echelon)



Series: you're the only refuge now. [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV), Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst and Feels, Blanket Permission, F/M, I apologize for nothing, Jon Snow is IRON MAN, R plus L equals J, Sansa Stark is PEPPER GODDAMN POTTS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 08:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11824833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/95echelon/pseuds/dropofrum
Summary: When Jon returned from north of the Wall, everything changed.Three years after that first kiss, he walked to the podium of a hastily arranged press conference, cheeseburger in hand, and talked about the cost of a man's actions.He talked about accountability, and the price of war, and what Ned Stark might have thought about the Westeros they lived in today.And none of that mattered when Jon Snow, chairman and CEO, the man they called the'Merchant of Death,'effective immediately, shut down the weapons' manufacturing division of Winterfell Industries.





	smoke in the water

**Author's Note:**

> FUCKING YES I'M DOING THIS. WHY THE HELL NOT.  
> 

_**prologue** _

* * *

_"They burned down the gambling house_  
_It died with an awful sound_  
_Funky Claude was running in and out_  
_Pulling kids out the ground."_

_\- Deep Purple, "Smoke in the Water"_

* * *

**2016**

It all happened so _fast._

One minute, Sansa was the pretty, young heiress of the Stark family - rich and glamorous and forever gracing the cover of some idiotic tabloid - and the next, it had all been wrenched from under her feet. Papa was dead, mugged in an alleyway with no real suspects, and Bran, who'd been with him, slipping into a coma so deep the doctors thought he might never wake up. 

* * *

 

Arya decided to join the Air Force, and went off to Braavos Academy, her shoulders stiff, her eyes flat and dead; Robb decided the best way to deal with his grief was to fuck his way through Wintertown's entire female population and Rickon, poor baby Rickon, who didn't understand how death worked, kept asking Sansa when Papa was coming back. 

 _He's never coming back,_ Sansa screamed in her head. _He left us and he's_ gone _and he's never, ever, ever-_  

She never said any of that aloud. It didn't matter what Arya thought - Sansa always tried her hardest to be a good sister. 

And then Jon Snow, the almost-brother Papa had basically adopted when he was twelve, plucking him out of a tiny Stark Expo workshop when a small army of his baby-sized robots developed sentience - _sentience! -_ and setting him, even at that age, on the fast track for Vice-President of R &D, _that_ stupidhead Jon Snow had gone to the Wall to sell to the Night's Watch their newest, shiniest, scariest missiles, and gotten his stupid, pretty-boy arse kidnapped by the motherfucking _wildlings_. 

* * *

  **2017**

When Jon Snow came back, everything changed.  

* * *

  **2007**

The first time she met him, she was nine. She wore a blue dress to meet him, a pretty one that matched her eyes and made her look a little older. 

At twelve, he was fascinating to her - shy, in the way that none of her brothers were, the way none of the boys she knew were. 

"Are you the new kid?" she'd demanded, staring curiously at his faded t-shirt, ratty sneakers, at the way he clutched his sagging backpack to his chest, a Star Wars screwdriver poking out of his pocket.  

"Yeah," he had said cautiously. "I'm Jon."  
"I'm Sansa," she announced. "Do you want to see your room first? Or your workshop?"

Jon gaped at her. "I... have a... workshop?" he had asked, as if trying to test out the words, like they didn't sound completely real. 

Sansa scrunched up her face in response. "Duh," she replied, taking his hand in hers and dragging him to the basement labs. "Come _on_ , I helped Papa pick out the colors. You're going to love it."

And Jon Snow did, with its bright red walls, and acres of gleaming chrome panels, enormous skylights filtering in wintry, silver sunlight. He loved everything about it; although he sometimes secretly wished the lab had come with the girl. 

* * *

  **2017**

Sansa stood on the tarmac, arms wrapped around her chest, the air whipping through her hair, turning the tip of her nose bright red. A sort of hysterical calm had enveloped her - the thing she was thinking most clearly when the jet came to a standstill in the hangar was, 'Good Christ, I should've worn better shoes.' The product of being so fucking terrified for so long, probably. 

When the plane's cargo loading ramp dropped open, and he was there, eyes tired, arm in a sling, an enormous purple bruise blooming on his cheek, she gasped and stumbled, rocking on her heels, her whole body shivering with the fact that he was finally, _finally_ home. 

He walked to her, exhausted and smiling anyway, until they were inches apart. She was taller than him, in heels. Not by much, but he had to look up to her. 

"Hey," he said softly, and it was like a dam broke, as she threw herself into his arms, silent, dry tears make her shake, as he rubbed his free arm down her back. 

She withdrew for a moment, and whispered, "Never again, Jon Snow," so harsh, her words could've cut diamonds. "You don't _ever_ leave me again."  
And he tugged her back into him, warm and familiar, with a cocky little grin that made her want to _hit things,_ and said, "Wanna get cheeseburgers?"

She smacked him upside the head.  

* * *

**2014**  

Jon Snow had always been pretty shite with people. 

It was how he was - if the thing didn't have moving parts he could rearrange, he got bored and cranky and occasionally committed minor acts of arson. If that particular habit of his wasn't life-threatening, Sansa used to think, it would almost be endearing. 

But he was good with her. Her whole family, really, but he understood the way she worked, the way the twisted cogs of her brain fit together. If angthing, he'd proved it beyond reasonable doubt when she had turned sixteen. 

 

 

 

 

 

**6:49 AM  
** **You have (1) new message!**

 

_Open  
_

**Jon Snow:  
** Cm down 2 the lab. Got u a present. 

 

"Jon?" she called, traipsing down the stairs in her weekend pajamas, hair tied back and eyes still blinking sleep away.   
"In here!" a muffled voice called over the speaker, as Sansa punched in her entry code and pushed open the enormous glass doors.   
"Hello, Ms. Stark," a deep, rolling baritone announced. "You're up early today."

"Good morning, Ghost," Sansa replied to the AI, as a screen lit up, the image of a howling wolf silhouetted against the grey background. "Has Jon slept at all yet?"

"We're currently in our 63rd hour of surviving on coffee and Red Bulls," Ghost informed her cheerily over the lab's speakers. The cheerier he got, the more dangerous the situation was. "At this rate, I anticipate heart failure at the tender age of 24."

"Which still gives me six more years," Jon retorted, his syllables slurring together as he twitched, like he was being poked with a cattle prod every other second, as he climbed down from the rigging strapped to the roof of the lab. Sansa didn't even want to  _know._ "Hi Sansa."

She glared. "You're _not_ one of your robots. You run on a _heart,_ not a goddamn carburetor. You need _sleep._ And food. And- Ghost, incinerate all the coffee in the lab."

"Gladly, Ms. Stark," and the foul smell of plastic burning filled her nostrils before industrial strength exhaust fans kicked in silently. 

"Also," Sansa added, carefully watching Jon's face, "the soft drinks, the energy drinks, the Ritalin-"

"Hey! That's prescribed!"

Sansa scoffed. "It is _not_. What the hell are you doing to yourself?"

 

Jon grinned. "I was making you a present."

"A present? My birthday isn't for weeks."

"Yeah," he shrugged, "But I'll quite likely forget calendars exist by tomorrow. I'd rather just give it now, if that's okay."

Sansa blinked. "I'm not going to say no to a present, Jon."

 

"Brilliant. Ghost, roll it out."

There was the slick slide of gears rolling, and a dress mannequin rolled out on a podium, draped in a silver gown so pretty, Sansa _gasped_ , clapping her hands over her mouth. 

She darted a glance at him, where he was twitching still, and grinning ear to ear, hair a rumpled mess and eyes so bright she could _die._ "Can I- can I touch it?" she asked reverently, even though her feet were already carrying her to the dress. 

"It's all yours, love. Go on." It was like silk woven from air, so light and delicate and unreal, that Sansa had to hold onto herself from a moment, remind herself to _breathe._ And then, the silver flickered, turning red and gold and violet, and Sansa staggered backward. 

 

_What. What-_

_"What was that?!"_

 

Jon smiled his curious, half-smile, head cocked to the side like he was trying to solve a strange new puzzle. It made her stomach clench up with something fierce and hot, like a crush, but- _more._

He walked to her, placing a gentle hand on the small of her back, guiding her back to the podium, and he draped the cloth over her hand, rubbing it softly between his forefinger and thumb, and watching her watch as the fabric slowly rippled with color, sending eddies of bright, medieval hues like currents in a whirlpool. 

 "Oh my god," she whispered, leaning back against the solid weight of him. She could feel his smile, against the skin of her shoulder, the back of her neck; she could feel its warmth in the way his breathing changed, the way his hand settled on the luscious curve of her hip. 

 "Is this going to be one of Winterfell Industries' new products?" she asked faintly, past the buzzing in her ears, the way his thumb stroked the skin where her sleep tank had ridden up. 

"No," he said. "Too expensive for mass production."  
"Oh."  
"Do _you_ like it?" he asked softly, voice rumbling above her.   
"Yes," she breathed, closing her eyes and falling against him, not sure if they were even talking about the dress anymore. "I do."  
"Good," he whispered, never stepping away from her. "Good. Happy sweet sixteen, Sansa." 

And he wondered, as his blood retreated south, with the warm, trusting give of her body in his arms, if there was any real way to tell a girl that you've given her a thirty-six million dollar dress for her birthday. He's not quite sure there was. 

 

* * *

**2017**  

"Where to, Mr. Stark?" the skinny little chauffeur asked. 

"To the hosp-"

"Actually, no, I've been in captivity for eight months-"

"And you need the doctors to look at you, Jon-

"What I need, what I _want,_ is two things. I want a cheeseburger, and the other thing-" He stared at Sansa, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, all she could think was, _'Finally,' "-_ and I'd like to call a press conference."

She swallowed the heat in her throat away. "A _press_ conf-"

"Ah, ah, ah. We need to go to Robb's place, too. I don't want the media to tell him. But first, _cheeseburgers_. Man," he said, rubbing his face, and lounging back in the Bentley's back seat, and constantly twitching like the time he had overdosed on caffeine, "I've missed this place."

Sansa retreated to her side of the seat, eyes hungrily roving down the sprawl of his body, and wondered if this was how hearts broke - not with a bang, but a whimper. 

 

* * *

**2016**

It began to fall apart the day after Papa died. An army of suits had descended upon the house - lawyers and insurance agents, tax brokers and estate managers, the entire bloody Board of Directors.  

They all came to offer condolences, and under that thin pretense, to grasp power where they could. And her family, her whole enormous family, has been _useless,_ each one of them so selfishly wrapped up in their own grief that it didn't matter to any of them that there power-hungry leeches would destroy decades of her father's work. 

She knew what they thought about her, even about Jon - that she would do anything for money, and he would do anything to make Ned love him more than his own sons. It was a horrible thought, and Sansa was sure they all felt guilty about it, but they felt it all the same. 

When it came to it, Sansa managed the lawyers and Jon managed the Board, and where that didn't work, they managed each other's problems instead of their own. It didn't matter in the end - Ned Stark's will was read, announcing generous trusts for each of his children, for his wife. But when it came to naming his successor, Mr. Stark named Jon Snow. 

Catelyn accused him of usurping what belonged to her children. Arya ran away. Robb fucked empty-headed bimbos, when he wasn't too stoned to see straight. And so, Sansa despised them all. 

  

* * *

**2017**

Jon slipped on a baseball cap and dark glasses before stepping out of the car. 

When he came back from Robb's filthy bachelor pad, he was more disheveled than ever, his mouth caught in a hard line, his clothes reeking of pot and cheap perfume. 

Sansa didn't ask, and instructed the driver to take them to HQ. Robb had to walk his path alone. 

  

* * *

**2015**

Jon walked into his lab, the day before he was supposed to leave for college at Oldtown, to something out of a dream. 

"Hi," Sansa was saying, hair still mussed like she'd just woken up, in a pale blue tank top and drawstring shorts, clambering out of the window seat and towards him. She fiddled awkwardly with the hem of her shorts, tugging and releasing, tug and release, and all Jon could think of was how goddamn desperately he wanted to kiss her. It was ruining his  _life_ , this obsession for her, the way he needed to _see_ her, to understand her, to know the ways to make her smile.

"Hey," he said, walking to her as the clouds above the skylight parted, casting a silver corona of morning light around her, making the wispy cotton she wore as translucent as fine silk. 

"Something up?" he asked, when he was in front of her, when he could see the grey flecks in her blue eyes. 

"You're going," she said shortly, before she stiffened, looked away, like she'd given up too much of herself.

"Yeah," he said. "Can't work for your dad without a degree, can I?"

Sansa scoffed. "Please," she muttered. "You could walk into headquarters tomorrow and Papa would assign you a table, an intern and unlimited funds."

 

Jon chuckled. She wasn't _wrong._

"Why do you have to go?"

He ventured a little closer, heart beating faster when she didn't step away, but swayed helplessly closer. "I have to do this, Sansa. I have to do this for me."

 

She wrapped her arms around her middle, frowning into the distance. "I know. I feel that way too, sometimes."

"And that's why you'll do wonderfully at Vale. Harvard's not going to know what hit it." He tucked a finger under her chin, angling her blue gaze up to him. "Was that all?"

"No- I- Your birthday's coming up."

"Huh?"

_"You **forgot**?!"_

"I- uh. I do that sometimes."

Sansa exhaled, rolling her eyes. "Jon Snow," she drawled. "How _have_ you survived to the grand age of eighteen?"

"Luck," he quipped. "And my perky nipples."

Sansa choked on a laugh, giggling into his chest as she looped her arms around his neck. "Your gift was _perfect,"_ she whispered into his t-shirt, sounding very distressed. "And I don't know what to get you. Please don't hate me?"

He didn't bother responding to that kind of stupendous idiocy, tangling his fingers through her hair at the nape, tugging her at the waist to fall closer into him. "You don't need to get me anything, Sansa. You know that, don't you?" 

"But I _want_ to," she insisted, muffled. 

"Give me something to remember you by, then," he said, heartbeat roaring in his ears, the feeling of balancing at the edge of something tenuous and sharp burning in his veins. 

 

She drew back, searching his eyes for- for _something._ She smiled a little; a sleepy, pleased quirk of her lips, and Jon thought that's how she'd look, if she woke up next to him. Hazy and fiery and so fucking gorgeous, he'd never survive without her. 

She stretched up on her toes, tugging him down, and- and- Sansa Stark _kissed him._

 

* * *

  **2017**

Three years after that kiss, he walked to the podium of a hastily arranged press conference, cheeseburger in hand, and talked about the cost of a man's actions.

He talked about accountability, and the price of war, and what Ned Stark might have thought about the Westeros they lived in today.  
  
And none of that mattered when Jon Snow, chairman and CEO, the man they called the _'Merchant of Death,'_ effective immediately, shut down the weapons' manufacturing division of Winterfell Industries. 

* * *

 

_to be continued_

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you drink six cups of coffee and stay up all night in a sad attempt to cram for finals. Don't do it, kids. Make better choices.
> 
> This series will contain five more parts, so, if you'd like to see what happens next - which is, self-indulgent drama involving angst and porn and laughter and the occasional homicide - make sure you subscribe. And thanks for reading!
> 
> Series title from Stephen's 'Crossfire.'.  
> As far as I'm concerned, no archive warnings apply. However, if you disagree, let me know if should include in any the end notes.   
> **Blanket Permission:** Go ahead and translate, make podfic, rework the fic, or do whatever other transformative work you can think of. If the work is hosted on another site, drop me a comment or email and I'll put a link in the story notes!


End file.
